


A Comb Carved From Bone

by unwritten_muse



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwritten_muse/pseuds/unwritten_muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions overflow the day of their mother's burial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Comb Carved From Bone

It was a wind-whipped morning, thick with sorrow and an unseasonable skein of cold, and Éowyn had refused to let anyone near her. Every attempt to groom or dress her was met with a whirling fury of limbs and ear-shattering screams. He'd heard the shouting as soon as he'd returned from the Great Hall; the thick door that led to her chambers concealing none of the commotion within.

When another attendant exited in a rush, a small cut over her eye and her dress newly torn, Éomer sighed and stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him. The room was in shambles, overturned furniture and broken pottery everywhere he looked. Éowyn turned on him, skin flushed and damp from sweat, eyes wild and wet from tears. They stood across from each other for an unknown time, the solemn expression on Éomer's face never changing as he stared down the inferno that raged within his sister, slowly doused the flames with his steady, unflinching presence.

He took her firmly by the arm, led her to a chair and with nothing but a look forced her to sit down. The fight had drained from her eyes, leaving nothing but pain and sadness, and he resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her, to hold and protect her from the trials of the day. Instead he walked briskly over to her dressing table and randomly grabbed a comb. He was certain she was meant to have some kind of special adornment today, something befitting her place in their uncle's household, something appropriate for the burial of the King's sister, but that was not meant to be. Not today.

It was the only time he ever combed her hair, impatient slashes at first, pulling and tearing at the tangles and knots. But then he caught a glimpse of her cheeks covered in a steady flow of near-silent tears, and his arm slowed. He gentled his movements, the long, careful strokes almost meditative in their rhythm and precision. He didn't know how long he stood behind her, pulling the comb through the length of her hair. At some point she stopped crying, then the hitch in her breathing evened out, then silence save for the pop of the fire in the hearth and the careful sweep of his arm as what had once been unruly began to look civilized. Not fancy, not pretty, but respectable.

He stepped back to assess his work, then turned to look for the garments that had likely been laid out for her.

"I can dress myself."

He startled slightly at the words, turned to see her staring up at him, her eyes finally dry but still swollen and red. He nodded, failed at finding a smile as he handed her the comb, only then noticing it was the carved one their mother had given her only a few short months ago.

"Don't be long," he admonished, and turned to go. Then Éomer stopped, reached out and ruffled her newly-tamed hair, and finally smiled as she swatted his hand away. Maybe, he thought, stepping out into the hall, they wouldn't be lost in the grip of loss and grief after all. Maybe they would one day rediscover the ease of sibling playfulness. He closed the door quietly, then set out for Meduseld to let their uncle know they would soon both be ready.


End file.
